And I only am escaped alone to tell thee.

There’s a well-worn joke about watching nature shows and rooting for the hunter if it’s a show about wolves, and villainizing the hunter if it’s a show about elk. Any fan of heist films knows that this phenomena holds true in the human realm as well, though not really when killing is involved (I don’t know of anyone watching Goodfellas and rooting for Joe Pesci). Similarly in nature, it’s hard to root for the hunter when the hunter is human. Even in the best of situations, for example when the human is hunting to feed his or her family, we tend to treat the necessary death of an animal with reverence rather than cheer.

So Stubb doesn’t come off very well in “Pitchpoling.” As Ishmael describes the technical prowess of a man who can accurately throw a whaling spade from a “violently rocking, jerking boat,” we briefly get caught up in the excitement of the feat, that is until we realize what the feat accomplishes. These whales flee with such “swift precipitancy” because they don’t want to die. As Stubb gleefully compares the blood he draws from the whale to wine, and merrily wishes they could gather around the wounds and drink, one can’t help feeling him barbarous. As the “agonized whale goes into his flurry,” and Stubb “mutely watches the monster die,” any remaining excitement over technical prowess vanishes, and we are left with nothing but a dead whale.